


Love Will Not Break Your Heart

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:51:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wonders what Sherlock’s lips would feel like, if they would be cold, or warm; soft, or hard; dry, or wet. He wonders what it would actually feel like to have the other man pressing his weight down on John’s smaller form. He wonders if Sherlock would be demanding, or careful and soft, while learning everything about a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Will Not Break Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from After The Storm by Mumford and Sons because all of their songs are written directly for Johnlock. I also apologize because in between the lines of this fic are hints at my own personal headcanons.

The first time John realizes that he may be in over his head is two years after he had first met Sherlock Holmes. John considered Sherlock his best friend, and he was sure Sherlock considered him the same. After all, you can’t live with the same man for two years of your life and not think of them as a close and dear friend. John still wonders to himself why he hasn’t left 221B Baker Street, there are times when Sherlock seems absolutely insane, and it really astonishes John that he can put up with that. But somehow he does.

Over the years, they had grown close; the comments about the two of them had never really stopped. It used to bother John, they were not _together_ like that, and they would never be together like that. John was straight, and Sherlock – he presumed – was asexual. He had never had a relationship with anyone, ever. There was The Woman, but Sherlock had always denied any feelings for her whenever John brought it up to him.

John didn’t know much about Sherlock, he had realized one day. Sherlock knew much about John – most of it that he had deduced from the man, and some even John had admitted to    Sherlock. John explained the situation of Harry and her ex-wife to Sherlock one night after he had a loud argument with a very drunk Harriet Watson over the phone. Sherlock knew much about John’s life, but the more John lived with Sherlock the more he realized he didn’t know much. He knew simple things, but he did not know about Sherlock’s family at all. He figured it wasn’t one of the best families, a torn family he thought, a struggling family, from what he had seen between Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t talk about his mother, and he never talked about his father. If John hadn’t thought about it he would have assumed that Sherlock had appeared out of thin air one day.

Which probably wouldn’t be that far off.

It was late when John realized the other things he knew about Sherlock, though. He knew how he likes his coffee – two sugars, no cream – and how when he’s thinking really hard about a case he doesn’t eat for days, and how when he’s frustrated he plays his violin for hours on end until John is yelling at him to “stop making such a bloody ruckus it’s three in the morning, Sherlock!”. He knows that the only times he sees Sherlock truly smile is when they’re alone in Baker Street, and he knows how much Mrs. Hudson means to the man. He knows that deep down, in that heart of his that seems to disappear when they leave the confinements of their small little flat, Sherlock Holmes is one of the most caring and compassionate men John Watson has ever met and he wouldn’t want anyone else for a best friend. All this realization suddenly makes John’s heart ache with want, to want to be next to the man, to hold his hand, and caress his face, causing the older man to sit up with sudden shock, and confusion.

What did any of that _mean_? When you’re living with someone you’re bound to find out more things about him than deem necessary, but wanting to _be_ with Sherlock, just be in his presence, and that _aching_ in his chest and the pit of his stomach when he realized that that may never be possibly. Sherlock doesn’t _love_ , John isn’t sure the man has the capability to love something. Not that he isn’t human… but Sherlock Holmes doesn’t show much emotion to _anyone_ … ever. Sometimes to Mrs. Hudson, sometimes to John… but only sometimes. In very rare moments.

 

*

 

It happened after a particularly long day, they had been running around trying to catch this sneaky drug dealer. It wasn’t one of Sherlock’s best cases, and honestly John could tell he found it rather dull. But cases had been coming in rather slow these days, and it was the only thing that Sherlock could take.

The two of them were running around an alleyway trying to corner the man when the next thing John knows he’s being shoved up against a concrete wall. He feels the scratch on his forehead before he’s being peeled off of the wall and the gun is being placed on his temple. John stills, he doesn’t react, doesn’t show fear, and doesn’t say _anything_. Show no fear, stand in place, and wait.

Sherlock rounds the corner a few seconds after and freezes as well when he spots John having a gun held to his head by, John thinks must be the drug dealer. The detective stands in place, eyes wide, and his mouth shut tightly, but holding up a gun of his own.

“Drop the gun,” the man said, his breath brushing past John’s ear when he spoke. John could see the way Sherlock’s mind was racing, trying to find a solution out of this, but to John’s surprise, Sherlock drops the gun. He bloody _drops_ it, right on the ground.

The man behind John laughs, and slowly removes the gun from John’s temple, before John brings his foot back, and kicks the guy straight in the knee, whipping his head back and a loud _smack_ goes through the air has John’s head collides with the other man’s. The man drops to the ground, unconscious and John groans, rubbing the back of his head, leaning down and picking up the man’s gun as well as Sherlock’s.

“What the devil was that?!” John snaps to a still surprised looking Sherlock, before passing his gun to the man. “Drop the gun, what a genius idea,” John grumbles leaning down and checking the man’s pulse, making sure he was still alive to bring to the police. He sighs, standing up, shocked to see Sherlock was still in the same position he was, his eyes focused on the cut on John’s forehead, which was obviously bleeding.

“Sherlock!” John yells, breaking Sherlock out of his trance. “What is _wrong_ with you tonight?”

Sherlock clears his throat, and pops up the collar of his jacket, moving over to stand next to the unconscious body of the drug dealer they had been tracking for the past week. “Hungry,” Sherlock mumbles – it’s an obvious lie, but John decides to ignore it. Sherlock quickly brings out his phone and texts Lestrade their locations, saying they have the man in custody, before turning back to John, his eyes fixating back on the cut.

“What?” John says breathily, looking up at Sherlock. It suddenly feels a lot warmer for the end of November.

“You’re bleeding,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice sounding tight. “You might need to get stitches.”

“I don’t need stitches,” John grumbles, bringing out the handcuffs he had in his pocket, and moving the prisoner up into a sitting position by a wall and cuffing his hands together. “I’m a bloody doctor, Sherlock, it’s just a scratch. Head wounds bleed more.”

“You could have been shot at,” Sherlock counters back, but before John can think of something to shoot back at the detective his hand is tracing softly over the small wound on the soldier’s head, causing John to shiver slightly, and look up at Sherlock.

In his eyes, he sees something he’s never seen in Sherlock before. Ever. He sees softness, a stillness … it looks like he’s at ease, and John seems transfixed, he can’t move his eyes away from Sherlock’s, even though they’re now peering down darkly into his as well. They’re close, closer than they’ve ever stood before, and Sherlock’s hand is still tracing over John’s hairline, before the hand drops down his arm, resting on his elbow.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, still looking down at Sherlock, his breath ghosting over John’s nose. It smells sweet, with a hint of coffee, but other than that … it somehow smells sweet.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs back, he suddenly feels awkward, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands but he supposes he should put them somewhere. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t move his hands, but Sherlock’s own is hot on his elbow, and he wonders if Sherlock is hot everywhere else, if the man just has a huge body temperature.

“John,” Sherlock says again, “Don’t ever let yourself have a gun pressed up to your head ever again,” he says simply. He says it almost as a command like, _‘don’t almost die or else’_.

John nods, blinking and staring up at Sherlock again. Suddenly the sound of feet are making their way through the alley ways and the two men separate so fast John wonders if he should be feeling light headed.

It’s later that night that John realized he had a moment with Sherlock in front of an unconscious drug dealer.

 

*

 

They never mention it again. As far as John is concerned what happened – or could of happened – back in the alleyway was far out of Sherlock’s mind. By the time they had arrived back at their flat that night Sherlock seemed to be back to normal. His worry for John and his stupid forehead was long gone.

It was a few weeks after the drug dealer incident that John had another one of those “realizations”. It seemed that these realizations always came to him late at night when he couldn’t sleep, and he could hear Sherlock moving around the flat on the lower level. It’s late on a cold night when John realizes he wishes that maybe he could help Sherlock sleep, next to him, in a warm bed. He could lie next to the man and rub his back in long, soothing strokes, maybe eventually he could fall asleep. Maybe he could be a _person_ for Sherlock, his someone, his one thing.

John rubs his eyes, groaning and rolling onto his stomach, shoving his face into the pillows and willing for the thoughts to end. He doesn't know where they're coming from. He's always been straight, he's only ever had feelings for girls, but John knows that romantic feelings are, and he knows himself. He knows exactly what he is feeling right now, but that doesn't mean he understands it. He has nothing wrong with homosexuality -- his sister is a lesbian, for god's sake, he has nothing wrong with it. But he never thought that _he_ would have feelings for a man, oh no.

Here he was, John Hamish Watson, questioning his sexuality at the age of 37, to a man he met two years ago.

 

*

 

"John."

"Mmph."

"John wake up."

"Gerroff me, Sherlock."

John sits up, rubbing his eyes looking at Sherlock through sleepy eyes, the younger man is sitting on the edge of his bed, sitting crossed legged like a bloody three year old, and peering at him like some sort of cat. It's a little unsettling, honestly.

"What, Sherlock?" John asks.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, before taking a breath. "Two months ago, I showed ... a weakness of mine to you," he says simply.

John quirks an eyebrow, trying to remember what "weakness" the man is talking about, but it suddenly all clicks for a moment. _“Don’t ever let yourself have a gun pressed up to your head ever again.”_

"The Drug Dealer case," John says back to him, and he sees Sherlock nods. John's suddenly grateful for the darkness of the room, because he's sure his face is bright red, and he really hopes Sherlock isn't able to see or tell within the room.

"I was -- worried," Sherlock whispers quietly, like it was some sort of curse, "I was worried that you were... going to be hurt, going to be shot and it -- it ... _scared me_ ," he says the last two words in a rush, before suddenly hopping up from John's bed and walking around John's small bedroom for a moment. "I thought ... I thought I should tell you, so you weren't ... worrying about me, or-or wondering what was wrong with me that night, because I understand I was acting strangely.

John swallows, "It's fine, Sherlock. I-I understand. You were worried for my safety that's... normal."

"Not for me!" Sherlock suddenly spits. "I usually don't care about _anyone_ , I've never had to care about anyone before, but suddenly I meet you and I--" Sherlock sighs, running a hand over his eyes for a moment. "I worry about you, and your safety, and I just... _I couldn't stand it if anything ever happened to you_."

John suddenly feels light headed, he needs to think clearly, but suddenly he can't because -- Sherlock cares about him? Maybe even _needs_ him, and it's hard to think let alone breathe when John's head is spinning.

"John," Sherlock murmurs again, low and soft, just like that night.

John looks up at him and smiles, "That's normal, Sherlock -- we're friends, you're my ... best friend."

Sherlock looks up at him, an almost-smile crossing his mouth before nodding. "Yes, you are my best friend as well, John Watson."

John finds himself smiling again, as Sherlock claps him on the shoulder for a second, and mumbles something about going back to sleep, and closes the door behind him, but John is still caught up in the fact that he's Sherlock Holmes' best friend, and the feeling of Sherlock's hand still burning through the cotton of his t-shirt and into the warmth of his skin.

 

*

 

John may or may not be obsessed. Obsessed with the way Sherlock talks, the way he deduces things in the matter of seconds, the way he walks, the way he can stay awake for days straight without showing even the hint at being exhausted. He's obsessed with the way Sherlock sometimes touches his arm when they're walking down the street, or when they're in the flat and Sherlock is trying to get John's attention.

They're definitely closer, somehow more intimate with little arm touches and soft speaking. It had almost freaked John out a little bit, until he realized how much he liked it. How much he liked being around Sherlock that way. He still refused to admit anything, any romantic feelings. He wasn't gay, he was straight, he's been straight for 37 years and that couldn't possibly change now. -- Could it?

John shakes his head, rolling over in his bed before hearing his alarm go off, he lets out a slight groan before dragging himself out of his bed and over to the shower. Sleep for once would be nice.

 

*

 

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _Harry?_

From: Harry Watson  
To: John Watson  
 _yeeS?_

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _Nevermind. Take some asprin and drink lots of water, Harry._

*

 

John wakes up to heat spreading across his chest, he looks down before he feels another mouth covering his, forcefully but softly at the same time, and John gasps the only thought running through his head is _Sherlock_ , before the mouth is leaving his own and he can look at the man.

"Sherlock," John breathes, his head rushing, before the taller man leans down to leave a trail of kisses along John's neck, causing the older man to gasp loudly, and cling at the fabric of Sherlock's t-shirt.

Sherlock growls against the skin of John's neck, pressing in closer, their chests now pressed together, and John thought correctly, he is warm _everywhere else_ and it makes him whimper a little. Then Sherlock's mouth is back onto John's insistent. He tastes like tea, and something else that just has to be _Sherlock_ , and John finds his hips thrusting up to meet Sherlock's, the other man pressing him firmer into the bed now.

"God, John," Sherlock groans into his mouth, his mouth leaving once again towards John's neck, biting down on the skin for a moment. "I've been wanting to do this, for so long, John, you don't even _understand_ ," he hisses, grinding his hips down to meet John's.

" _Sherlock!"_ John gasps, pulling Sherlock impossibly closer as their hips move together almost frantically.

"Need you," Sherlock mumbles, "Need you with me, John, please." Sherlock suddenly sits up, causing John to whine slightly with the loss of heat. "Shh," Sherlock soothes, runnng a hand down John's thighs and then back up hitching John's shirt up his chest and running a hand down his stomach. John is squirming underneath Sherlock's touch, just wanting _moremoremore_.

"So beautiful, John," Sherlock whispers, pressing a kiss underneath his bellybutton. "So beautiful, I l--

\--John wakes up in a cold sweat, his heart pounding noisily in his chest and a horrible aching between this thighs. He groans and rolls over onto this stomach, pressing his face into the pillow.

He's definitely screwed now.

 

*

 

The first time John realizes he's in love with Sherlock Holmes is two years and five months after they first met, five months after the "unconscious drug dealer incident", and three and a half months since he had _that dream_. He had ignored the feeling at first, maybe he was just lonely, _maybe_ that could be it. But the longer John ignored it, the harder it was to ignore it. He had more of _those dreams_ and he kept noticing things about Sherlock like how _tight_ the man’s shirts were, and how whenever he was thinking about something really hard his eyes would get _really_ dark and it was sort of distracting.

Sherlock has to realize that something is up, he has to. John is acting completely different than he used to, but the younger man still hasn’t been saying _anything_ about the matter, and that’s confusing John even further, even more than the fact that he’s having a sexuality crisis. The fact that this has been going on for _months_ now, and Sherlock hasn’t brought it up to John, worries him.

Another voice in John’s head is saying, “Be thankful he isn’t saying anything – do you really want to explain to him what’s going on?” The answer is obviously no. John still doesn’t qute know what’s going on inside his head, so even though it’s confusing him furthur, John is thankful Sherlock isn’t saying anything. He isn’t ready to explain.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to explain.

 

*

 

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _Harry. Are you there?_

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _Harry, I know you’re probably vomiting in the toilet, but I actually need you. Please._

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _John? No, I’m okay, I was making supper. What’s wrong?_

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _I need … your advice. For once. Is it okay if I come over?_

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _You want to come over to my house? Right now?_

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _Harry, please … this really isn’t the time for joking. I really need you._

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _Fuck… what’s wrong? Come over now._

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _I’ll explain when I get there._

To: Harry Waston  
From: John Watson  
 _Thank you, Harry._

 

*

 

John leaves a note for Sherlock, who seems to be so emersed in his studies that he doesn’t even notice when John is packing a small bag in case he has to stay over night at his sister’s. The note simply states that John needed to go visit his sister for the night, and that he’ll be back tomorrow around brunch or afternoon. John leaves the note on the coffee table next to Sherlock’s coffee mug, and he can’t help but notice how his stomach swoops pleasantly about how Sherlock looks, tucked up on his chair, surrounded by twelve different books.

It’s comforting, somehow.

John closes the door quietly behind him.

He gets to Harry’s in record time, even though he actually hasn’t been to visit his sister since her separation from her wife. The only time he’s seen his sister were at family gatherings, or if she came into town for the day.

Harry lets him in quietly, before guiding him into the sitting room and handing her brother a cup of tea, perfectly warm and comforting in John’s hands. He lets out a sigh.

“What’s happening to you that forces you to come out here?” Harry jokes lightly, leaning down to take a sip of her tea. John knows her fingers are itching for a different type of beverage, he can see it in her eyes.

“You’re the only one I can talk to about this,” John murmurs quietly. “Plus you’re my sister, I trust you.”

“What is it, John?” Harry says gently, as if she says it too loudly John will break.

“How did you know you were gay?” John blurts out turning his head to look Harry in the eye.

Harry raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “I just … knew? I dunno how to explain it to you, John. All my childhood I felt different, especially through my pre-teen years. My friends would be talking about how the guy they saw downtown was _so cute_ , and I … well I was thinking about how big my friend’s tits were getting—”

“—Harry don’t be so vulgar—”

“It’s true though! That’s how I felt, John. I’m not joking around here. I was thinking about my friend’s breasts while they were talking about a guy’s abs. It really only made sense to me, though when I had my first … _dream_ , y’know?”

John blushes immediately, taking a sip of his tea and not answering the question.

Harry gasps, “John! Are you gay?!”

John jumps setting his tea down quietly, and reaching to cover his sister’s mouth as if they were out in public and not in Harry’s quiet little house. “Harry, _shut up_!” he whispers, sitting back down and knowing his sister was just waiting for his answer. “I-I don’t know, okay? I just … I’ve been having … _feelings_ for a-a man…”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“H-how did you know?” John asks, his eyes wide, and his fingers shaking slightly.

“He’s the man you live with, you write about him daily on your blog, John. It was a guess. A correct guess I’m going to assume from your reaction,” Harry says with a small chuckle. “Bloody hell, John, calm yourself down. I’m not going to tell anyone, you’re my brother for god’s sake.”

John takes a deep breath, and rubs his hands over his face, before looking up at his younger sister, “Harry…” he whispers, face crumpling, “what do I do?”

 

*

 

John cried for the first time that night, the reality finally settling in around him. But his sister’s arms were there, and they held him, and rocked him gently as John finally let loose everything that he had been feeling for the past couple of months.

But it wasn’t the fact that he could be gay, or bisexual, or anything that was making John Watson cry for the first time since he was fifteen years old. No, it was the reality. The terrible truth that was underlying the whole situation.

The fact that he was in love with someone, who was incapable of loving him back.

 

*****

 

John goes home late that afternoon to find Sherlock in the kichen, using it for “not kitchen things”. They don’t speak a word to each other, and John grabs his computer and disappears into his bedroom for the evening. He’s still not in the mood to speak to anyone. He doesn’t quite remember what happened to him last night, he remembers going to Harry’s and he remembers telling her about Sherlock and he definitely remembers crying, but he doesn’t remember what happened after that. He thinks he fell asleep after crying for a while, and he woke up in Harry’s spare bedroom.

They didn’t speak that much either.

John’s exhausted, and he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do anymore. He has to continue his work, he has to continue to work with Sherlock despite his feelings, but he now knows that the probability of Sherlock returning those feelings are slim to nill.

John sighs, and lays down on his bed, rubbing his hands down over his face. He’s so lost, he’s so, so lost.

 

*

 

“John.”

John feels someone shake him awake, bewildered John suddenly sits up to see Sherlock standing by his door frame holding two cups of something – tea probably. Sherlock flashes him a light smile and John hates the way his stomach curls and his throat closes up at the sight of it.

“Yes, Sherlock?” John asks, his voice skratchy and unclear from sleep.

“I made you some tea,” Sherlock says quietly, setting down one cup on John’s dresser and putting his hands holding the other cup out to John. “You seemed off when you came home, from your conversation with your sister, of course, so I made you … some tea.”

John looks up at Sherlock, taking the cup from his hands, trying not to freak out when Sherlock’s soft fingers pass gently across his when he retreived the tea.

 _You’re a 37 year old man, not a fifteen year old boy, grow up Watson!_ a part of John’s brain scolds himself.

“You are … feeling well, John?” Sherlock asks quietly. “You’ve been … acting, weird for a couple of weeks now. I figured that I shouldn’t say anything, because it wasn’t my business.”

John clears his throat. “Yes, I-I – you’re right, it is none of your business.” John stammers, the thought _I told you that, and you remembered_ echoing through his mind. It’s after that that John realizes his tone might have been a tad bit rude. “I-I mean… yes, it’s none of your business to ask it’s good that you’ve … uhm, realized this. But … yes, I … I’ve just had a lot on my mind right now.”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “I suppose you shall be alright soon?”

John looks down at the tea in his hands, and bites gently on his lip. “Yes, I will,” he says.

 _I hope so_.

 

*

 

Life continued on, everyday John figured out an easier way to ignore his feelings, try to move on and get past them. He continued to go to work everyday, and help Sherlock with cases in his spare time.

No good cases had been coming in, and John could tell it was starting to make Sherlock go a little crazy. He would pace around the flat his eyes unfocused and moving around quickly. He was also drinking an obcene amount of tea. John was ignoring him, talking to Sherlock while he was in this mood was never a good thing.

Things had been … _different_ between the two of them recently anyway. They still talked yes, but not often enough considering they were best friends (supposedly) and flat mates. Before all of John’s realizations they didn’t talk much anyway, but now it was _eerily_ quiet all the time, and there was unresolved tension. There was no way to fix it, though. John was _never_ going to explain to John what was up with him.

John had had a few dreams, about telling Sherlock about his feelings. Though he never could call them dreams, they were more like nightmares. John would wake up sweating and tearily, feeling the tears start in his eyes already. They usually started like a normal day, John would get up and do his morning routine, and Sherlock would follow suit. When it got to mid-afternoon “Sherlock” would insist on John telling him why he was in such a foul mood. And when Dream-John got up the courage to finally explain, it always ended in Sherlock giving him a blank look and saying, “You know that could never happen. I don’t _love people_ , John.”

John sits quietly in his chair, his hand rubbing over his temples, trying to calm himself down trying not to _think_ about that for god’s sake. It’s going to be the death of him and he just can’t handle it anymore.

 

*

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _You can’t do this forever, John. You’ll have to tell him._

 

*

 

John wonders what Sherlock’s lips would feel like, if they would be cold, or warm; soft, or hard; dry, or wet. He wonders what it would actually feel like to have the other man pressing his weight down on John’s smaller form. He wonders if Sherlock would be demanding, or careful and soft, while learning everything about a relationship.

Finally, John always wonders if Sherlock would maybe just learn to love John, somehow.

 

*

 

To: John Watson  
From: Annoying Prat  
 _J_ _ohn, seriously. You can’t just ask me for help, and then when I give you help ignore it._

 

To: John Watson  
From: Annoying Prat  
 _I know how this must feel, John. I’m sorry._

 

To: John Watson  
From: Really Annoying Prat  
 _John Hamish Watson. I’m never helping you ever again, you’re an ungrateful bloody idiot._

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _I’m sorry, Harry._

 

*

 

It happens on a hard day. Harry has been texting John all day long, telling him to _just do it, just do it John it’ll make everything so much better, no matter what he says_. And Sherlock has been going crazy because there are officially no cases he’s willing to take up anymore. They’re both teetering over the edge, they’re both bombs ready to explode.

John recives a text from Harry saying something along the lines of _Just because you’re having an idenity crisis and you’re in love with your best friend, doesn’t mean you can be a little bitch to me_. And that’s when John has had enough he slams his phone down on the coffee table, and stands up walking into the kitchen and turning the kettle on.

Suddenly Sherlock is in the doorway, glaring at Sherlock in a way that _really shouldn’t be that attractive_. “ _What is wrong with you?_ ” Sherlock hisses.

John glares at him. “What?”

“What is wrong with you?!” Sherlock screams, “Seriously, John, you’ve been acting so … so _strange_ for the past few weeks and I’ve been trying to be ‘polite’ or whatever you said is good, personal space, all that junk you’re filling my head with, but it’s gotten completely _ridiculous_. What is _wrong with you_ , what is on your mind that’s made you so … insane?”

“Oh like you don’t know!” John snaps back at Sherlock. Which was probably a bad move, John doesn’t want to anger Sherlock, and he definitely doesn’t want to think that Sherlock has _deduced_ what has been “going on with him” these past few weeks – but _fuckfuckfuck_ that is completely and totally possible and now John feels like he’s going to vomit.

“Don’t be … such a _girl_ , John!” Sherlock yells back at him. “I care about you, you—you idiot! I care about you, and I just want to know what’s been going on with you! _Please_ explain this to me!”

Suddenly John breaks, because the words _Don’t ever let yourself have a gun pressed up to your head ever again_ and _I couldn't stand it if anything ever happened to you_ and _Please_ _explain this to me!_ are running through John’s head on warp speed, and Sherlock is standing _so close to him_ and his _stupid sister’s_ texts are running through his mind and he just can’t _do it_.

So he just does it.

John snaps forward, his hands coming up to Sherlock’s face, the way he’s always visualized it, and presses his mouth tightly against Sherlock’s, and – and Sherlock’s lips are warm and soft, and slightly wet from the spit that was he was firing out of his mouth, but he also tastes like tea, and something else that just has to be _Sherlock_ , and John’s head is spinning because Sherlock is kissing him _back_.

Warm hands are wrapping firmly around his waist, pulling John closer to his body, their chests pulled flush together, and John is pouring everything into this, into this quick little kiss.

But it’s over too soon, and they’re both pulling back, running out of air. John falls forward, his forehead falling against Sherlock’s chin, and his lips brush over the skin softly, wet from John’s kisses. They’re both breathing so heavy, but it’s still suddenly quiet from the yelling they had been doing moments before.

John’s heart is beating fast, he feels light headed and he knows he should say something but he doesn’t. He feels Sherlock’s hand touch the back of his neck, cradling his head, while his other arm is still curled around John’s waist, and he pulls John’s mouth back to his, letting them reconnect.

John’s hands and holding Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling him closer as their lips move softly against each other. They are just little kisses, not as rough or desperate as the first one was. It just goes on, and on and neither of them are complaining, or pulling back for too long to reconnect their mouths. John turns his head more, deepening the kiss and moving to suck Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth, causing the taller man to gasp, and pull John closer, his mouth opening and John takes advantage of the fact, running his tongue slowly against Sherlock’s before tentively sliding his along Sherlock’s and there’s electricity running through the both of them, because they’re both grapping for each other and holding on tight like neither of them want to let go before –

The loud sound of the tea kettle going off causes the two men to jump apart, Sherlock flying backwards towards the counter, seemingly bracing himself on it. He looks absolutely obscene. His usually pale skin is flushed pink, and his lips are red and shiny from John, _fuck_ , John did that.

“John…” Sherlock murmurs.

“W-would you like some tea?” John squeaks out, because he knows it’s all over. Sherlock has to know “what was going on with him” by now. If he didn’t he was an idiot – and that wasn’t possible.

Sherlock nods, and moves way silently, allowing John to go over to the kettle and shakily pour himself and Sherlock a cup of tea. He’s starting to shake slightly now because _that just happened_ and _what the hell does it mean_ but especially _what the hell is Sherlock thinking right now?!_

He feels the warm heat of Sherlock coming up behind him, which doesn’t help the fact that John is bordering on having a panic attack right in front of him. He knows he should say something but he doesn’t _want to_ he wants Sherlock to say something first, bring it up, talk about it. John doesn’t want to have to be the grown up in yet another situation with Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock says again.

Okay, maybe John doesn’t want to talk about this right now.

“Sherlock…” John breathes back, his eyes falling shut as he grips down on the counter so hard his knuckles start turning white.

“I-I understand now why you were … so different these past couple of weeks,” Sherlock says quietly, his voice sounding distant. He’s standing closely behind John, maybe a little bit too close for comfort at the moment. “John, I… I wish I could, I want to –”

“Just be honest, Sherlock,” John breathes out, quick and fast. Just the way he wants this to go. He knows exactly what Sherlock is going to say, what he needs to say. Maybe this is what John needs to near. Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s ready for it.

“I don’t – love, I don’t have … romantic feelings for you, not for anyone and – I-I’m sorry if I hurt you. I never meant to.” A pause. “This whole thing got out of control.”

John nods quietly.

And Sherlock leaves.

John collapses.

 

*

 

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _He kissed me._

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _OMG. WHAT?!?!!?_

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _He doesn’t love. He doesn’t return those feelings._

Minutes pass.

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _John… I’m so sorry._

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _Thank you for trying to help, Harry. It meant a lot._

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _Maybe he was drunk, maybe he didn’t know what he was saying. Maybe he misinturpretted you._

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _He’s Sherlock Holmes. That’s highly unlikely._

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _I am so, so sorry, John._

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _Forget about it. I have to, so should you. I’ll be fine._

To: John Watson  
From: Harry Watson  
 _Maybe you will_.

To: Harry Watson  
From: John Watson  
 _Maybe_. 


End file.
